


The Truth is Rarely Pure (and Never Simple)

by Pearl09



Series: Ineffable One-Shots [17]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dorian Gray Fusion, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Light Angst, Minor Violence, Or Is It?, Sort Of, Unrequited Love, all the way at the end, crowley is here for a brief second, minor obsession, no one gets hurt though, probably, wilde's pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2019-12-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:28:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21828211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl09/pseuds/Pearl09
Summary: Oscar Wilde is looking for some new inspiration. He wants something fresh; something no one has ever thought of doing before. When he meets the bright-eyed Aziraphale at a party, he thinks sticking by him is the key to unlocking this secret. But does this friendship hold more than he realizes? Or is he just really interested in that mysterious painting?orAziraphale is the inspiration forThe Picture of Dorian Graywhile the book's plot is also part of this fic (except no one dies)
Relationships: Aziraphale (Good Omens) & Oscar Wilde
Series: Ineffable One-Shots [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1445479
Comments: 9
Kudos: 74





	The Truth is Rarely Pure (and Never Simple)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!! Title credits go to the man himself, Oscar Wilde. I used a quote of his.  
> Also sorry I've been gone for a bit; school got crazy at the end of the semester, and I also am writing for a bunch of events that I can't post yet. (those will be coming in January; keep an eye out!)  
> This was a very self-indulgent fic; Dorian Gray is one of my favorite books, so this idea has stuck with me for a while now! I hope you enjoy!

Oscar Wilde isn’t new to Gentleman’s clubs. Ever since he had gained popularity, everyone seemed to invite him to theirs. He was busy, though – he had essays and poetry to write, after all – but he does make an effort to go to at least once a week. It isn’t good to hide in his room day after day, anyway, and his public image might suffer if no one ever sees him. 

No, he isn’t new to the clubs. What is new, however, is the man with fascinatingly bright blue eyes and shockingly blond hair. He had been to this club before, a few months ago, but he doesn’t recall ever seeing this man before.

The man seems downcast – forlorn, even – which doesn’t sit right with Wilde. With such shockingly good features, and knowing the nature of some of the gentlemen in the room, he’s surprised this mysterious man is alone against the wall. Joining in the crowd, he searches for the host; Mr. Dawkins.

“Oh, Wilde,” the plump Dawkins says once they find each other, bowing his bald head. “It’s so good to see you back here. We’ve had a number of new members join since your last visit.”

“So I’ve noticed.” He gestures to the man across the room. “Care to introduce me to him? His personality seems so – intriguing.”

He laughs. “Wilde, you haven’t even met the fellow! You can’t possibly know how he is just from a glance.”

“I insist you introduce me anyway. I feel that I must know who he is.”

Dawkins grows solemn rather fast. “Poor fellow seems to be going through a rough time in his life. He won’t say. We can hardly get him to talk. He does like to dance, though; we’ve been teaching him to gavotte, and he seems to enjoy it. He’s getting there, for the two left feet on that man.”

“I believe you underestimate me there, Dawkins.”

He shakes his head. “You and your words. Come on.” He leads Wilde through the crowd, politely greeting those they pass until they finally reach the far wall.

“Mr. Dawkins,” the man greets, almost surprised they were here. “Lovely party as always.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. Even if you are a bit of a wallflower today.” He chuckles lightly, but it quickly dies as no one else joins in. Clearing his throat, he continues, “I have someone here who would like to meet you.” He turns to Wilde. “This is Oscar Wilde – an author of many forms. Wilde, this is Aziraphale Fell. He owns a bookshop over in Soho.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Aziraphale nods. 

“Believe me, the pleasure is all mine.”

“Oh, Cohen is beckoning me over,” Dawkins interrupts. “I’ll leave you two to chat.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dawkins.” Wilde lets him leave and allows the silence to settle a little before stirring up a conversation. “I’m not so sure I’ve ever met a bookshop owner before, especially at a party. Certainly not here, though I’m sure these gentlemen are well-read.”

“I just love books,” Aziraphale says wistfully. “As for the party part – the bookshop was passed down to me by my grandfather, who founded it after fleeing France during the Revolution.” He adjusts the bow around his neck with a small grimace. “Brought a fair amount of money over.”

“Ah, yes. I should have known. If I didn’t know you on sight, then you must be rich. That’s all Dawkins seems to invite – famous or rich people.”

“You’re an author, then?” He changes the subject quickly. “I wonder if any of your works have made it to my shelves?”

“Oh I doubt it,” he chuckles. “I haven’t written any novels. Just poems and plays – a few essays. I was a journalist too, for a while.” Sighing, he continues, “No, novels have escaped me so far.”

Aziraphale swirls the glass in his hand, watching the wine spin around. Wilde swears that it wasn’t that full a second before. “Still, writing is a gift. It takes quite the talent to gain popularity. Surely you’ve written _something_ I would know.”

“I’m not nearly as popular as Shakespeare, I’m afraid. Popular enough to be here, but – it doesn’t surprise me you haven’t heard of me.”

Aziraphale continues to stare at his glass, keeping silent.

“Was it something I said?”

He looks up, startled. “I’m sorry?”

“Did I say something that upset you? You grew quiet all of a sudden.”

“Oh, no. Goodness, no. It’s not you.”

Wilde nudges his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Fell. This is a party. Let it help you forget your troubles.”

“Please, its just Aziraphale.”

“Then I insist you call me Oscar.” He extends his hand with a smile. “I heard you’re learning to gavotte?”

Aziraphale sets his glass down on the table next to him and takes the proffered hand, a small smile of his own crossing his face. “If you’re offering to be my dance partner, Oscar – then I gladly accept.”

As the party comes to a close, Wilde has spent the better portion of it dancing with Aziraphale.

“Oh, Aziraphale, I hate for our night to come to an end! You must let me give you my address; I can’t bear the thought of never seeing you again!”

“I appreciate it, Oscar, but I can’t leave the bookshop closed all the time.” He chuckles gently at himself as if he just made a joke that only he understands. 

“Then I’ll visit you! I’ve had such a lovely time; I’d hate for this budding friendship to be cut before it blossoms.”

When Wilde passes Dawkins before leaving, a piece of parchment with an elegantly written address on it tucked securely in his pocket, Dawkins mutters, “I’ve never seen him that happy.” He then shakes his head. “You and your words, Wilde.”

“If it was to make him happy, then I will keep at it until he either cheers up, or I find out what’s bringing him down.”

“Be careful with that Mr. Fell. He may have more secrets than your writer’s heart can handle.”

Wilde smiles. “With any luck, he will give me the inspiration I finally need to start a novel.”

~~~

“Oh, this is such a lovely little bookshop!” Wilde remarks, gazing upward into the open balcony as the door behind him clatters shut.

“Hello, Oscar,” Aziraphale greets, appearing from behind a stack of books. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here so soon!”

“I can’t stay cooped up in the office forever. I needed some fresh air.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place, then.” He chuckles before gesturing to the books. “I don’t think you’ll get much fresh air with some of these old tomes.”

Wilde takes a sudden interest in the closest bookshelf. “My my, that does seem to be the case. Do you even have any books from this century? Or just some not covered in dust?”

“The dust gives them character,” Aziraphale sniffs, pursing his lips. “The shop specializes in rare and old books. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve had to go through to get some of these.”

“I can’t imagine. This Canterbury Tales looks almost like you got it from Chaucer himself!”

Aziraphale shuffles slightly, changing the subject. “Can I offer you something to drink? Brandy? Wine?”

“Actually, do you have any tea? I’m not much for day drinking when I have a project to work on.”

“A project?” he repeats, a twinkle of interest in his eyes. He gestures for Wilde to follow further into the shop.

“I’m looking for inspiration for my next work,” he explains, settling down onto the plush couch in Aziraphale’s back room. “I don’t know where I’m going to find it, but I doubt it will be at home.”

Aziraphale disappears for a few moments before returning to sit in a chair next to Wilde. “If you do find the inspiration, I’d love to add your writing to my collection.”

“I feel it would be out of place here.” He laughs as he looks around the room. “I mean, these are – these are relics. I don’t know that I could ever see my work collecting dust like these.”

“Well, I didn’t just say it was old books. I did say rare as well. If you bring over a signed copy of your work, my dear, then it will fit nicely.”

Wilde suddenly finds himself very interested in the cuff of his sleeve, swallowing down his beating heart at the seemingly sudden nickname. “I don’t think dust would look good on them.”

Aziraphale shifts quietly in his seat. “Let me go check on the tea.”

Grateful for the break, Wilde nods and watches as Aziraphale leaves the room once more, giving him time to reign in his thoughts and steer them away from their current race.

His attention is drawn to a sheet hanging on the wall across from him – he hadn’t noticed it earlier; probably too charmed by Aziraphale to notice. Now that the man in question is gone, however, it seems rather odd. The sheet itself can’t be more than a few years old, for it doesn’t have much wear to it, but it does have a thin layer of dust. It seems to be covering something – a painting, most likely, from the awkward angle.

It seemed rather peculiar that the painting would be covered. Most people will take it down if they don’t like it, or not buy it in the first place. Wilde almost gets up to see what’s behind the sheet, but just as his legs start to move, Aziraphale walks back in with a tea tray.

“Help yourself,” he says, pouring a cup for himself before taking it back to his chair.

Wilde pours himself a cup of tea, and as he stirs the sugar into it, he thinks about how to kindle the conversation and possibly turn it to this strange painting that seems to have captivated him. “Say, Aziraphale. Are all the decorations and things around here yours?”

“Yes,” he answers, taking a sip of tea. “They do all belong to me, as I’m the sole owner of the shop and my flat upstairs. But if you mean that I was the one to buy them – not everything is from this time period.”

If Wilde could focus on anything else, he’d think the phrasing of the answer to be strange. But, as it is, he believes Aziraphale. “What about that painting?” he asks, gesturing with his head to it.

“What paint–” he cuts himself off as he turns to look, eyes catching on the sheet and his face falling. He takes another drink from his tea before saying, in a low voice, “I’d ask for you not to bring it up again.”

“Of course. My apologies.” Something sparks in Wilde’s soul – this might just be the very thing he was looking for. A mysterious hidden painting, an owner who refuses to look or talk about it – it seems like the perfect plot for a story. He doesn’t want to upset Aziraphale after he asked not to talk about it, but – he thinks he might need to see what’s under it for the story to truly develop. Even so, he might have enough to start. Might.

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Anyway, what were we talking about?”

“Uh…” he trails off, trying to remember the topic of conversation before his eyes chanced a look at the sheet. “Oh – your collection.”

“Ah, right.” He shifts in his seat, settling into a comfortable position. “Ever since before the shop opened my, er, grandfather had a collection of books. They still sit in this very shop today. The one thing about owning a store is you always need more stock. So, one day, when – when someone else has the shop, then your books will be among the old ones, and then – they’ll have to get new ones, too! So they’ll fit then.”

“Sure, if they don’t sell before then.”

“Right. Of course.” He takes a long drink of his tea.

In the sudden silence, Wilde pulls out his pocket watch, surprised by the time. “Goodness me, I didn’t mean to be a bother for this long!” He sets his tea down and starts to stand.

“Oh, no, Oscar, it’s been wonderful to have you over. Don’t feel the need to leave on my account.”

“As much as I’d like to stay longer, Aziraphale, I do have other appointments to get to.” He smiles and straightens his jacket back out. “Thank you for your hospitality, though. I’ll let you get back to your books.”

“Will I see you again?” Aziraphale asks, walking him back to the door.

“Undoubtedly. Take care!”

As the bookshop door closes behind him, Wilde pushes the thought of the painting to the back of his mind, but it stays there, echoing faintly with the promise of an idea.

~~~

“Oh, you should have been there, Dawkins,” Wilde says, sitting in the man’s study as he enters. “So many old books, and they seemed to be first editions too! It was remarkable.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it so, Wilde. I think you’re both good for each other; improving your moods such as this.”

“It seems a shame he’s never married! As good looking as he is, you think he would have been snatched up already.”

“Unless it’s by choice. Need I remind you of the kinds of people I typically invite?”

A spark of hope shines in Wilde’s eyes as he looks up at him. “Do you think he’s available?”

Dawkins finally sits down with a sigh. “You’d know better than me. I haven’t gotten much out of him. I think I’m lucky he comes out of that shop at all with whatever is bogging him down.”

He frowns and slumps into the chair. “I didn’t get much out of him either. We mostly talked about books and…” he trails off, lips still parted as he finishes his breath. 

“What happened?”

“That – painting,” he says, sitting back up in his interest. “He had a painting covered up on the wall and dismissed it as soon as I brought it up.”

“Oh, I know that look. You want to write it.”

“I told you, Dawkins, there’s something here I can use!”

“There’s a covered painting and trouble, Wilde. I warned you of this already. I’m afraid of seeing you become obsessed with it, and what the consequences may be if you continue.” He sighs heavily. “But I know you won’t listen. Are you meeting him again?”

“I’m hosting him for tea-time next month. I might try and stop by the bookshop before then, though. That painting could be anything, and I need to get to the bottom of it. Just imagine it!”

“I am.” He purses his lips. “Be careful where you tread. Not everyone wants someone digging up their past, and Mr. Fell seems like just the type.”

“Oh, come on. That’s not imagining! It could be, a, a piece of magic, or, or some priceless artifact that should be in a museum!” He stops at the stern frown coming from Dawkins and offers back a sheepish smile. “I’ll be careful, Dawkins. You know me.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” With that, he stands, walking back out of the study to his next appointment.

~~~

Wilde holds the fresh stack of parchment in his hands, letting it fall to the surface of his desk a few times to straighten it out. He then lays it down, adjusting in his seat before reaching for his quill. Tapping the excess ink out, he brings it to the page, hand ghosting the surface. He stays in that position for a while, but nothing comes. When the ink drips from the quill and splatters against the otherwise pristine paper, he sighs and returns the quill to the inkwell. There was still nothing to write.

He calls for his butler as he sets the newly tarnished page aside. 

“You called, Mr. Wilde?”

“Yes. Are you ready?”

“Everything is prepared, sir. Your guest is not here yet.”

“Go fetch a running boy from the street, then. I’ll send him a note. Probably got caught up reading again.” Once he leaves, Wilde pulls a fresh sheet of parchment towards him, taps the excess ink off, and writes a letter.

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_Hope you are doing well. I haven’t heard from you since my last visit. Did you forget about tea-time? It’s okay if you did. If you need time to get ready, just send the boy back with a message._

_Yours,_

_Oscar Wilde_

He reads the letter over before folding it up and dripping wax from a nearby candle on it to seal it.

He turns around at the knock on his door and a young boy enters. “You need me to run a letter, sir?”

“Ah, just in time.” He hands the paper over. “Run it down to the old bookshop in Soho; A. Z. Fell’s. You’ll be paid upon your return.”

He nods before leaving, and Wilde turns back to his desk. Sighing, he sets the paper to the side and stands. He was already ready, but there was no harm in looking himself over once more. 

The boy finally returns as he is adjusting his puff tie.

“There you are. what news do you have for me?”

He holds Wilde’s letter back out to him, the seal still intact. “I knocked a few times and waited for a while, sir, but there was no answer.”

He carefully takes the letter back with a frown. “Alright, then. Go find the butler for your money, and tell him to clean up. No one’s coming, I’m afraid.”

When the door closes once more, he pulls his puff tie off in a huff and tosses his jacket to the side, gripping the back of his chair with a frown.

~~~

Wilde sits down in his chair with a huff, picking up the quill and letting it hover over the page. He scowls and dips the quill again, slamming the quill back into the well before abruptly standing and pacing. The cycle repeats itself over and over again over varying lengths of time.

A knock on the door catches him in one of his pacing moments, so he barks, “Go away!”

Robbie Ross walks in, ignoring him.

“Robbie?” he says, his pacing finally coming to a rest. 

“I was told you’re sulking, Oscar.”

“I most certainly am not.” He turns away and starts for the desk. “So if that’s the only reason you’re here–”

“No one’s seen you in weeks. So even if you’re not sulking–”

“I’m not!”

“We’re _concerned,_ Oscar. I’m concerned.”

He slumps down into his chair with a sigh, covering his face with his hand. “Maybe you’re right.”

Ross sits down in a nearby armchair. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“I’m just – being ridiculous,” Wilde starts, shaking his head. “I don’t think you’ve met him, but, There’s this bookstore over in Soho, and I met the owner at a party of Dawkins’. I thought we really hit it off, he gave me his address, and I visited once – and I haven’t seen him since. He was supposed to be here for tea-time, but – he didn’t show. And the runner came back and said no one answered. And I haven’t seen him since.”

“And you haven’t left the house since.”

Wilde mutters under his breath.

“What was that?”

“And I haven’t left the house since! Yes, you’re right. You’re always right, Robbie.” He turns away and crosses his arms. “I’m just afraid of being disappointed again.”

“You know, Dawkins told me about this – Mr. Fell. I think you’re doing a terrible job at recognizing your own feelings.”

“So he told you about the painting. Look I told him I’m not obsessed–”

“With the painting, no. You’re using it as an excuse. What you really want is a relationship with this Mr. Fell.”

“Robbie–”

“No, Oscar. Listen to me. I have to admit, the painting is strange, but you’re using it as a distraction. What happens if you do write a story about it? Is that the end of you wanting to visit Mr. Fell?”

“...no.”

“And, if you were only interested in the painting, why would you invite him here instead of spending all of your focus and energy on going there to the painting?”

“He’s a mystery,” Wilde whispers, looking downcast. “He seemed to be the most intriguing person at that whole party, and I barely learned anything about him. Then, he disappeared almost as suddenly as he appeared. I just – I want to know who he is. I want to know why he seems so upset every time I see him. I want – I want to know what makes Aziraphale happy, and how I might, in turn, be able to make him happy.”

Ross nods sympathetically. “You need to get out of the house, Oscar.” He leans back in his chair. “I understand how you feel, but you can’t spend the rest of your life hiding in here. You should go down there and confront him, and at least learn the truth. If he lets you down, it will hurt, but at least you can get back up from there and not sulk for the rest of your days.”

He doesn’t answer, refusing to look at Robbie.

“But it’s understandable if you don’t want to make that leap just yet. I’m hosting a small party next week; you should come. Start small, and work your way up there. Just know that I’ll be there every step of the way.” He pats Wilde’s knee gently before standing. “I need to go, but please, send for me if you need _anything_.”

Wilde looks up at him and nods. “Next week. Your house. I’ll be there.”

Ross smiles. “Good.”

After he leaves, Wilde pushes the parchment to the side once more, tracing the wood grain on his desk with his eyes as he ponders their conversation.

~~~

“Oscar,” Ross greets with a smile. “I’m glad you made it.”

“I’m glad I did, too.” He offers a half-smile before picking up a glass of wine from the table. “Don’t let me have too many of these, okay?”

“I’ll be sure to keep an eye out. Feel free to sit where you’d like; there shouldn’t be many more people coming.”

Wilde retires to a more secluded chair, sipping his wine as he surveys the gathering. Ross is standing with two other men, talking and laughing lightly at some joke one of them made. Another group of gentlemen sits together nearby, offering gossip to each other in low voices that Wilde can still hear.

“You’ll never guess who I saw at the theater last night.”

“Do we get a guess?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“What was the show again?”

“Much Ado About Nothing.”

“Oh, then that’s obvious! You saw Mr. Fell again.”

Wilde chokes on his drink, coughing into his elbow and holding out his glass as he catches the attention of the men.

“Are you alright, dear fellow?”

“Just dandy.” He takes his handkerchief and dabs the corners of his mouth before stuffing it back in his pocket and pulling his chair closer to them. “Say, did you mention Mr. Fell?”

“I did!” The man smiles mischievously. “Not everyone knows of Mr. Fell. It’s always nice to find someone else.”

“You wouldn’t find a Shakespeare performance in London without Mr. Fell going to at least two of the shows.”

“He seems somewhat enthralled with them. We’ve been trying to pry the reason from him on the occasional times he came to a party, but he doesn’t seem much for conversation.”

“I’ve noticed,” Wilde mutters. “You say this was last night?”

“Yep. Drury Lane. He was up in his own box, same as always, and had an empty seat next to him. It always seems like he’s expecting someone to come, but they never do. I caught him staring at the empty seat with a frown, once. God, I wish I knew what goes on in that man’s head.”

“Excuse me, gentlemen, but I think I need some air.”

“Had one too many drinks, huh?” They chuckle. “We won’t stop you.”

Wilde nods and stands, quickly crossing the room and exiting to the garden. He takes a deep breath as the door closes behind him, walking further through the flowers until he finds a sturdy bench resting by the middle of the path.

“Was it too much?”

Startled, he looks up quickly, meeting the eyes of Robbie.

“I saw you leaving and I followed to make sure you’re okay.”

Wilde sighs and pats the seat next to him, shaking his head. “It was nice of you to get me out of the house, but I’m afraid I just found the wrong group of men to mingle with.”

“What did they say? If they said anything against you, Oscar, I’ll–”

“One fellow saw Aziraphale yesterday.”

“...Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh.”

Ross carefully sinks onto the bench next to him. “So – he’s back.”

“Mhmm.”

“From whatever it is that caused him to miss your invitation.”

“Mhmm.”

“And he hasn’t contacted you.”

“Mhmm.”

He sighs. “Oscar – as much as I want to tell you to try and forget it – let yourself fall back into shape first. Get out of the house, go to some more social gatherings, maybe even try and write some more, and then, _then_ you should go to him and try and fix things. Trying now with this state you’re in might only make it worse.”

Wilde doesn’t respond. eventually, he breaks the silence by sighing. “Is it okay if I leave?”

“Of course. I’ll escort you to the door.” He starts to stand, only to be cut off by Wilde.

“Thank you, but I’d rather be alone.” He nods to Ross as he stands before setting off for the door, wondering if he should detour through Soho or just go straight home.

~~~

He doesn’t go to Soho. Ross was right, and he uses that as his voice of reason for the next few weeks. But when Wilde sees that _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ is going to play at the Drury Lane Theatre for a weekend, he barely hesitates before clearing his schedule. He will go to every performance if he has to so he can see Aziraphale.

Luckily for him, he only has to go to one. He settles into his chair on the night of the opening performance, having managed to get a seat on the floor right in the middle of the theater. From his vantage point, he can see into the empty boxes to both the left and right of the stage. Just as he is beginning to think he will need to buy a ticket for tomorrow’s show, the curtain behind the left box flutters, drawing his attention. Aziraphale steps out from behind them – it’s impossible to mix up his almost white-blond hair and his usual cream-colored attire up with anyone else in the city. He takes a seat just as the curtains open on stage. 

Even as the candle snuffers fade the lighting in the house, Wilde can still see Aziraphale enough that it distracts him from actually watching the performance. He finds that that man at the party was right. There is clearly another empty chair in the box, too close to Aziraphale to be considered normal. When a staff member entered the box at intermission to talk to him, he looked to be polite, but the moment they left, his face fell. This was in no way ordinary for a theatergoer.

Wilde forces his attention back to the play halfway through the second half, trying to make sense of the convoluted plot since he doesn’t know what’s going on. He’s polite enough to still clap for the performers at the end, though, and when everyone around him starts a standing ovation, he joins them. His clapping is short-lived, however, when he notices the box is empty again.

Quickly picking up his things and pushing past the handful of people in his way to get to the aisle, he hurries out of the theatre and into the lobby, hoping to catch Aziraphale coming down the stairs. He’s about to round the corner when he catches a glimpse of tartan, backtracking as his brain tries to catch up with what he’s seeing. Aziraphale is out the door already, and now the full rush of the crowd is starting to filter out. Wilde gets swept away in it as he tries for the door, finally managing to make it outside.

He turns left and looks down the street. Then right. Then left again. Then forward. Round and round he goes, trying desperately to see Aziraphale again, or glimpse his coat, or _something_ so he can chase after him, but it’s to no avail. Wherever Aziraphale is now, it’s not in Wilde’s line of sight. He sighs and sags a little as the crowd once again consumes him, making it difficult to get out and back to his own home.

~~~

A chance walk through Soho; a mistake on behalf of Wilde’s zoning out while in the streets; and suddenly, he finds himself staring up across the road at the bookshop. It was completely by chance.

He debates internally for a while about whether he should go over there and chance it or if he should leave, but after one too many passersby grumble at him for standing in their way, he steps out onto the street and crosses to the shop without another thought. And without checking if anything was coming, too… He was lucky there was a carriage dropping off its riders and blocking the road.

The sign on the shop says it’s closed, but Wilde doesn’t process this as his hand is already reaching out for the doorknob. Surprisingly, it still turns; unlocked. This gives him pause. Hesitantly, he opens the door, wincing at the suddenly loud tinkling of the bells above his head. His line of sight as he peeks in gives him a direct view of Aziraphale’s profile as he sits reading a book, not so discreetly looking at the door. He looks almost disappointed.

“We’re closed,” he says with a frown. Something thick hangs in the air, but Wilde can’t place the feeling.

He swallows before he loses his nerve – he came all this way, after all. There was no point in stopping now. “Aziraphale?”

At this, Aziraphale turns his head, furrowing his brow. “Oscar? Is that you?”

Wilde lets himself in the door fully as Aziraphale quickly places a gilded bookmark in the book to mark his spot, setting it aside before getting up to properly greet him. The door closes behind Wilde in a resounding thud as Aziraphale approaches with a small smile. Panic rises in his chest.

“What an unexpected pleasure. I wasn’t expecting anyone today; I feel like I haven’t seen you in months. Can I offer you some tea?” He turns around again, ready to leave for the kitchen.

“It has been,” Wilde musters, his voice catching in his throat. This freezes Aziraphale in his tracks. “It has been months.”

Aziraphale turns around, slowly, his expression unreadable. Wilde pushes on.

“We had a date – meal, planned. At my house. You never showed. You weren’t even here – I had a boy come down and look for you. Then –” he shakes his head. “Then I find out by accidentally listening in on a conversation that someone saw you at a play. You were back, and you never told me.”

There’s a pregnant pause, as if Aziraphale is waiting for him to say more. But Wilde doesn’t have anything else to say. What could he say that wouldn’t expose himself as pathetic? That he locked himself in his room for a while after that day? That he was waiting, _hoping_ Aziraphale would come and give some well-crafted apology and rectify things? That he wouldn’t do it himself? That he was crushed to find Aziraphale was back from a third party?

“I’m sorry,” he starts, slowly, but some of the tension already leaves Wilde’s chest. He sounds like he truly means it. “I lose track of time so often around here, when books are my only company.” He starts fiddling with the gold signet ring on his little finger. “I don’t deserve to give you an excuse for my absence, but if it helps ease your worries; I was probably away for work.”

“But you work in a bookshop?”

“Oh, well, yes,” he hastily answers. “It’s just, uh – tracking down old books is a lot harder than you think it is! I was in Italy for a few weeks, so that might have been why I missed tea-time. And it was so hectic over there, it must have just slipped my mind. Honestly, these days, I tend to be so forgetful without –” He freezes mid-sentence, swallowing thickly. “Would you still like some tea? I hope I can still rekindle this friendship of ours.”

Wilde wants to say no. He wants to try and listen to some of his friend’s advice – if he leaves as a simple acquaintance, then there’s no chance of recent events repeating themselves in a brutal cycle. But he nods, following Aziraphale into the backroom and sitting on the couch as Aziraphale disappears to start the water. He was so close to finding something out about Aziraphale – what was he missing? Something that made him stop and change the subject rather quickly, that’s for sure. Wilde’s eyes slide across the bookshelves until they land on that covered painting again, and now he begins to wonder if that could be the key to this secret. He needs to know what’s behind it.

Aziraphale returns with a tray, pouring tea out of the pot before settling into his chair once more. “You know, you still haven’t given me a copy of your books, dear.”

“Books? Oh, well… maybe I should write a novel. That’s something I haven’t done yet.” It seems strange, to fall back into light conversation with Aziraphale, as if their last meeting wasn’t a few months ago. But with Aziraphale – it’s like he radiates warm, comforting energy, where all of his problems melt away.

“Oh, don’t do that on account of me, please. I take plays, too! I have a signed copy of Shakespeare’s works – I’d say he’s the most famous among my playwrights’ collection.”

“Shakespeare…” Wilde mutters, tapping his spoon gently against the rim of his cup so the drops stuck on its edge fall back in. “One of the men that mentioned seeing you said you were at a Shakespeare show?” He doesn’t mention his own visit to the theatre – that doesn’t seem like a good idea right now.

“Oh, yes. I do love going to see his works. You must tell me when one of yours is running; I’d love to see it.”

He leans back against the plush cushion and takes a sip of his tea. “I have to admit, you don’t strike me as much of a comedy type.”

Aziraphale takes a sip of his tea, and Wilde almost misses his small glance at the covered painting. “They aren’t so bad with the right company.”

Wilde takes another sip of his tea in the ensuing silence. He knows Aziraphale wasn’t there with anyone – and from the sounds of it, he’s normally alone. There’s something going on here; something interesting enough that rekindles that idea in his head. Maybe, instead of writing the story out now… he should make notes.

~~~

“So, let me get this straight. You went and talked to him, and even after _everything_ I said, you’re still going on about the painting?”

“Robbie, you don’t understand,” Wilde says, exasperated. He shuffles through the pages in his hands again, the loose end splaying out as he reads from them to Robbie, sitting in the chair next to him. “The painting is special. He refused to talk about it the first time I brought it up. In fact, he asked me not to talk about it again. And it’s been covered for at least a year – I don’t think that sheet has moved since the first time I was there. Then, he glanced at it and mentioned enjoying someone’s company! It was almost too small of a movement to see, but I did.”

“Oscar, I thought you were past this.”

He shuffles the papers around again. “He was fiddling with a ring on his little finger.”

“So? You said you met him at Dawkins. So he’s rich. Every rich man in London wears a signet ring.”

“That’s not why it’s important! It’s on his little finger.”

Ross sighs and brings his hand to his forehead, holding it. “Why is that important?”

“Don’t you know anything? Which finger someone decides to wear a ring on has a meaning. The ring finger is for wedding bands. The index finger is where someone usually wears their signet ring. But the little finger – that means he doesn’t want to be married.”

His hand moves to cover his eyes. “It could just be that’s the only ring it fits on, Oscar. I think you’re blowing this thing wildly out of hand.”

“Why would he have that ring on, and talk about the right company, and have that painting covered?” he continues, ignoring Ross. He moves to another page. “Here are my ideas so far. A. He was married and has since lost his wife, whose portrait is still there, but covered. He doesn’t want to see it for the pain it brings him. B. The same thing, but a lover. Either gender.”

“Oscar–”

“C!” he interrupts, louder. “The painting is an old family member, now deceased. He wears their ring to remember them but doesn’t want to see them anymore. I can’t figure out how the not marrying thing ties into that one though, so it’s probably unlikely.”

“Oscar Wi–”

“D! It’s some kind of magic. You can never rule out the supernatural.”

“Oscar Fingal O'Flahertie Wills Wilde!” Ross pulls his hand from his face and hits the armrest of the chair, gripping it tightly. “Will you please listen?”

Ashamed, he nods curtly, closing his mouth and setting the papers on his lap.

He sighs. “Oscar, I’m not going to tell you that you should stop seeing him. Frankly, I think it’s good for you to have a reason to get out of here every once and awhile.”

“I hear a but coming.”

Rolling his eyes, he continues, “But, I must implore that you don’t let it consume you. I mean – magic? You need to pick _something_. Are you still talking to him to get to know him, to get closer to him, or is it all about this painting now?”

There’s a pause as Wilde considers. “I – I don’t know.”

With a gentle hand, Ross places it comfortingly on Wilde’s leg. “You don’t need to answer it now. Just – think about it, please? You need to pick one, and try to let go of the other.”

After hesitating, he places his own hand on top of Ross’s. “I’ll try.”

~~~

Relationship or painting. Relationship, or painting. Painting or relationship. The question torments Wilde. Aziraphale seems an interesting fellow; he’d love to become friends with him at the very least. While something more would be – amazing – he’s managed to decide that he might be willing to give that one up. But the painting still lingers. He sees it every time he’s at the bookshop. It floats in and out of his thoughts during his day to day routine. It dwells in his subconscious as he does anything.

He knows he needs to pick. He _knows_ that it’s bad for him, even if Ross had to give him that push to realize it. But no matter what he does, he can’t decide. It might be time to try and tear his focus onto something else, someone else, literally _anything_ else, before his sanity disappears over the thought of this painting. 

Aziraphale disappears around the corner as he leaves Wilde’s house once more, and Wilde stands in the doorway, watching him leave. His hair curls behind his ear, just like it always has. In fact, it doesn’t seem like it’s changed much at all, and it’s been almost three years since he met Aziraphale. Shouldn’t he have changed at least a little in that amount of time? His eyes widen in realization as he hurries back into the house and up to his study, quickly pulling out the ink and quill and writing out a letter.

Ross walks in around an hour later, the letter still clutched in his hand. He sighs when he finds Wilde pacing.

“What is it now, Oscar?”

“Oh, Robbie!” He stops pacing to greet his friend before ushering him to a chair and sitting as well. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Clearly, something happened.” He settles into the chair carefully. “But, you do seem cheerful, so it can’t be that bad.”

“Remember when I said that the painting could be supernatural, because you can’t rule the possibility out?”

“Oh, Oscar, seriously, the supernatural is–”

“I think that’s what I’m leaning towards now!” He plops down in his own chair, leaning his elbows on his knees and steepling his hands. “Listen. You’ve met Aziraphale by now, yes?”

Ross rolls his eyes, but goes along with it. “Mhmm.”

“Describe what you remember of your first meeting.”

“Oscar–”

“Just do it – please?”

“Fine.” He purses his lips, partly in annoyance, partly in thought. “Mr. Fell had short, very light blond hair. Slightly curly. He wore similar clothing – a cream jacket, brown waistcoat, and that giant tartan thing around his neck.”

“Mhmm. Good, good. Now, what did he look like the most recent time you saw him?”

Ross takes a deep breath. “He had short, very light blond hair. Slightly – slightly curly…”

“Yes! You get it!”

“Now, Oscar, I simply trailed off, it doesn’t mean–”

“He hasn’t aged a second in all this time I’ve known him! You can’t deny that _something_ is happening here!”

There’s a short silence before Ross finally gives in, sighing. “No, I can’t.”

“So! Something he owns has to be supernatural. Why not a painting that’s mysteriously covered up?”

“Do you really think something like that would be out in plain sight?”

Wilde opens his mouth to respond, but his face falls into confusion, pulling his hand up to his face in thought. “Perhaps he hung it, and then later found out about it’s abilities, so hid it from the public eye? It is in his backroom, so only his visitors and himself even see it.” He drums his fingers against his knee, stilling them as another idea sparks to life and the dawn of realization glitters in his eyes. “What if the painting is actually a portrait of him, and the portrait is growing old while he stays young and healthy?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

Wilde’s expression falls further into his confusion. “Ask him?”

“You may never find out what it really is unless you do, Oscar. And then–”

“That sounds like a wonderful idea, Robbie,” he interrupts, rolling his eyes and falling against the back of the chair. “Let me ask the possibly magic being about his possibly magic artifact and expect to be able to walk away unscathed.”

Ross sighs, muttering, “Here we go again.” He shifts in his seat to get a better, more direct look at Wilde. “From what you’ve told me – from what I have seen myself as well – do you really think Aziraphale would hurt you?”

He pouts. “No.”

“Then go tell him the truth. Tell him you have been obsessing over it. Tell him your theories. Tell him _everything_ , and try to get an answer. Then we can finally put this behind you.”

“But…” he trails off, half expecting Ross to interrupt him again. “What if he doesn’t tell? What if he’s offended and – and kicks me out?”

“Then he was never truly a good friend.”

Wilde ponders this for a moment. “Okay.” He nods. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

~~~

Wilde stands across the street from the bookshop once more, the busy winter traffic bustling across the sidewalks and riding down the streets in their carts. He blows some air into his mittened hands to warm them up and try to give himself the courage to go in there. He touches his lapel briefly, too – through his overcoat he can feel the flower Ross gave him for luck – a green carnation.

When the next carriage passes, he hurries across the street, glad the sign says open this time. A blast of warm air hits him as the bell jingles and he steps into the shop.

“I’ll be with you in a minute!”Aziraphale calls from somewhere further in the shop.

Wilde waits for him by the entrance, pulling his winter clothing off and hanging it on the coat rack. It must be a miracle or something to keep the shop this warm…

“Oscar!” Aziraphale exclaims, rounding the corner of a bookshelf. “What a pleasant surprise, as always.”

“I hope I haven’t come at a bad time?”

“Nonsense! Just doing a bit of redecorating is all.”

Wilde smiles. “Seems it’s the perfect time, then. Care for some help?”

“Oh, Oscar, I couldn’t possibly–”

“I insist.”

Aziraphale’s smile grows. “Come on in to the back, then.”

Nodding, he follows Aziraphale, taking a deep breath and preparing himself for the upcoming conversation. 

They step into the backroom and his eyes immediately slide across the walls towards – the big, empty space, where the only proof anything had been there at all was a rectangle of paint not as faded as the rest of the wall around it.

Aziraphale, of course, notices his reaction immediately. “Yes, I thought it was finally time to lock that old thing in storage upstairs. It was a bit of an eyesore, and now I have room for another bookshelf.”

Wilde swallows thickly. “What are books if not an author painting words?”

“Oh, isn’t that lovely! Oh, I only wish I could come up with something poetic that even an author might use…” he trails off and stares at the blank space for a few seconds, before blinking back to the present. “Anyway! Would you mind moving some of these boxes around? The bookshelf should be here soon.” He frowns and checks his pocket watch. “Really soon. In fact, they’re nearly late.”

“Where do you want them?”

“Oh, just out of the way. We need room to bring in the bookshelf, and then those books are going to find a new home there.” The bell above the front door rings just as Wilde picks up the first box. “Just a moment!” Aziraphale smiles sheepishly. “Pardon me.”

Now in the room by himself, Wilde works on shifting the boxes out of the way, all the while glaring at the spot on the wall. How was he supposed to ask about it now? Sure, it still exists, but – it’s a lot harder to bring the topic up when the object in question isn’t even in sight anymore. Maybe he was wrong about everything. It must not have been that important if Aziraphale was willing to replace it like this. Or maybe Aziraphale noticed his minor obsession over it, so decided to get rid of it before Wilde could ask again? Anyone who knows books as much as Aziraphale seems to must know authors are always curious; seeking out their next story in the world around them.

“Apologies, Oscar,” Aziraphale says when he walks back in, trying to slip on his overcoat. “It seems there was a mishap in getting the bookshelf over here, so I need to go check on it.”

“No worries,” he answers, setting a box down. “I’ll just – get out of your hair then.”

“Nonsense, my dear! You only just got here! Go ahead and sit; this looks like there is enough room now. I think I can trust you not to burn the shop down while I’m gone. Feel free to make some tea if you’d like, too!” He hurries back off, and soon, the bell jingles once more as he and the messenger leave together.

Wilde eyes the couch and the boxes now partially in his way to get there, debating about what he should do. He _should_ sit down, and maybe make a cup of tea for himself, but not do anything else, because Aziraphale obviously trusts him enough to leave him here, all to himself. Would he really want to betray that trust? But, at the same time, he’s now alone in the bookshop. He’s alone, and the painting is somewhere upstairs. Locked away. A glance along the desks and end tables and Wilde has found a keyring – even if one of those keys fits whatever door upstairs, it’s worth a shot.

Quickly snatching the keyring and heading to the front, he turns the sign to closed. He doesn’t want anyone coming in looking for books as he’s snooping. As he heads for the stairs, he briefly wonders what would have happened if someone came in – Aziraphale didn’t seem to have any prices lined up for the books, so Wilde couldn’t even handle a transaction himself.

The thought is brushed to the side as he reaches the top of the stairs, holding his breath. Gently turning the door handle, he finds this one to be unlocked. It creaks open under his hand and he pauses at the loud sound, even though he knows there’s no one else in the shop to hear it. It’s most likely from the thrill of sneaking in where he isn’t supposed to be; the adrenaline pumping through his veins as he tentatively steps into Aziraphale’s flat.

Unsurprisingly, the flat is also covered in books, though there seems to be more dust up here than the shop below. There are a few closed doors in the space, and Wilde assumes the one on the other side of the small, rickety-looking bed is just a clothes closet. He needs to pick one carefully and quickly, for Aziraphale could come back at any moment.

A small trail through the dust on the floor is illuminated by the light from outside, and it looks like something was dragged across the floor. Something like, perhaps, a sheet that was covering a painting. He follows the trail to a small closet, and sure enough, when he tests the handle, it’s locked. The keys jingle loudly as he tries one after another unsuccessfully, growing frustrated as he moves further along the ring. Some of these keys look really old – he briefly wonders if Aziraphale even has the lock some of them belong to anymore.

Finally, _finally,_ the lock clicks, and the door swings out, opening to reveal its secrets to him. Sitting there on the floor at an angle is the painting, still covered in the white sheet. He shakes his head after getting mesmerized by it for a few seconds and sets the keys down before reaching out and grabbing two fistfuls of the fabric. After a deep breath, he rips the fabric away, his heart pounding more in his chest as he can finally set eyes on the painting that has driven him to near insanity many times.

“Interesting, isn’t it?” Wilde jumps and turns around, heart beating impossibly harder as he stares in fear at Aziraphale’s cold gaze. He hadn’t even heard him come in. “How paintings capture a mere moment in time. How paintings will never change; never age.” Bitterly, he adds, “How paintings remind us of what we once had, now lost to the sands of time.”

He gulps. Aziraphale makes no further sound, no further movement – he’s as cold and still as a statue. Slowly, Wilde turns back around to look at the painting. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so – happy.”

The painting was nothing like what Wilde had expected. Aziraphale was there, the same as he always looks, but his clothes look like they went out of style at least two centuries ago. His smile is bright, lighting up the background as he gazes upon the real star of the painting – a man with bright red hair trailing down to his shoulders and a small, similar-colored goatee; upon his face rests small, tinted glasses, and he can only be seen from the waist up. From what can be seen of his dark clothes, though, they also look terribly outdated.

“It was a gift. From Michaelangelo.” He shakes his head. “We clearly spent too much time around the poor fellow. Look at how he interpreted us. It was absolutely absurd to think that.”

“Mi – Did you say Michaelangelo?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes, pressing his lips together. “Oh, please. You wouldn’t be up here if you didn’t suspect _something_.” He sighs. “It’s why I don’t like to befriend humans.”

“Hu - why did you say that like you’re not one?” Wilde feels very out of his element now. Sure, he had suspected that supernatural forces were involved, and it was the leading factor up until now, but deep down, he didn’t really think it was true. Now that it is, it’s kindling the flame of his fear, which has him rooted to the spot instead of moving away at all.

The Aziraphale Wilde thought he knew seems to be completely gone as he storms across the room to a dusty desk. There no longer seemed to be that sweet, kind man – being – whatever he is.

“What are you doing?”

“Something I should have done already.” He finds a rusted letter opener among the books and papers, but with a blink, the metal suddenly gleams in the soft sunlight, as sharp as a knife. With fire in his eyes, he stalks across the room once more, true terror spiking inside Wilde as his fighting instincts kick in. He grabs Aziraphale’s arm when he gets close, trying to hold him back from… whatever he’s trying to do. It looks a lot like he wants to kill Wilde. That’s not something he was planning for today.

“Aziraphale, stop!”

“No! Move out of the way, Oscar!”

Move out of the way? So he doesn’t want to kill him? What, then, does Aziraphale truly want? As his arms shake above him, trying to hold Aziraphale back, he sees out of the corner of his eye what’s behind him – what he’s effectively blocking Aziraphale from reaching. The painting. “You can’t destroy the painting!”

“I can, and I will!” Aziraphale presses harder, and the room starts to grow brighter. Wilde is confused at first, wondering where the light is coming from, before he realizes that it’s coming from Aziraphale. He’s starting to glow. “I am the Principality Aziraphale,” he growls, his voice gaining a strange echo, as if hundreds of thousands of mouths are saying it – or maybe, none at all. “Angel of the Eastern Gate of Eden, and you will _not_ stand in my way!”

“Please, Aziraphale!” Wilde begs, squinting against the growing light. “This isn’t you!”

“You don’t know me!”

“You’re right! I don’t. But I bet this painting means something to you. If you go and tear it up, you’ll regret it!” He gulps, knowing he can’t hold out for much longer. “I don’t know what it means to you, Aziraphale, so tell me. Let me help you before you do something irreversible!”

He feels Aziraphale’s arm waver against his hands, managing to open his eyes enough to look up at Aziraphale. His face is twisted into a sneer, but, behind the anger, tears start to fall from his eyes. The force pushing against Wilde subdues and the letter opener clatters to the floor as the light fades. Aziraphale crumples to his knees in front of Wilde, hands pressed firmly to his face as he whimpers.

“What have I done?” Aziraphale whispers, his voice back to normal. “My dear Oscar – what have I done?”

Wilde crouches next to him, slowly and carefully encircling Aziraphale in a hug. “It’s – it’s okay,” he whispers, pulling him close.

“No, it’s not! Look at what I almost did! Look at what – what I let loose! What – What I almost did to – to you!”

He rubs soothing circles into Aziraphale’s back, not saying anything further. Technically, he was right. But it also seems that something has been weighing on Aziraphale’s consciousness for a while now. It doesn’t excuse his actions, but Wilde would be a terrible friend if he didn’t at least sit down and listen.

“Let’s get you downstairs, okay? You can calm down, I can make some tea, and you can tell me what’s going on. I’m no expert on these things, but I can still listen to anything you need to say.”

Aziraphale sniffs and finally removes his hands, running one of them under his nose quickly. “Okay.”

Together they stand, and Wilde offers Aziraphale support as they walk back down the stairs. After setting Aziraphale down and draping a blanket over his shoulders, he double-checks that the sign to the store still says closed, notes that the bookshelf managed to get in while he was upstairs, and starts to heat some water for tea.

When he finally brings the tray out and pours a cup for Aziraphale, Aziraphale takes it immediately, but he waits until Wilde has readied his own cup and settled onto the couch before he starts anything.

“I’m sorry,” are the first words out of his mouth, followed by a sniff. “I – lost my cool a little, back there.”

Wilde snorts. “Yeah. A little.”

Aziraphale purses his lips. He doesn’t seem to be quite back to normal, but Wilde doesn’t miss the glint in his eye, meaning he isn’t offended.

“You have to understand, it’s – it’s been a rough few years.”

“Mhmm.” Wilde sips his tea. “And I bet that young man in the painting has everything to do with it.”

“Oh, Oscar, I was so cross with him! I – I’m afraid I’ve ruined our friendship, for good.” He looks forlornly into his teacup.

“I know that tone. It wasn’t just a friendship, was it?”

Aziraphale looks up quickly, startled, and a pink tint spreads across his cheeks. “No. I mean – maybe. I mean – oh, I don’t know, Oscar. We’re so – different.”

“How so?”

Pursing his lips again, Aziraphale says in a monotone voice, “He’s a demon.”

Wilde chokes on his tea, eyes growing wide. “Well, that certainly does throw a wrench in things, doesn’t it?”

Backtracking, Aziraphale explains, “Well, he’s not a bad demon. Oh Lord, don’t let him know I said that. We’ve been here together on Earth since the beginning; always bumping into each other and thwarting the other, then staying and just – talking for a while. Whenever I was down, he always seemed to come around to cheer me up again, even if his ways of doing so were – strange.”

“Yeah…” Wilde agrees, his hand absentmindedly coming up to play with the flower on his lapel.

“The last time I saw him – well, the last time he asked me to meet him at St. James. I thought nothing of it until he asked me for the impossible.” He shakes his head, silent tears starting to fall from his eyes once more. “I blew up on him, sort of. Told him I didn’t need him. I regretted it as soon as I left the park, but I – I just couldn’t bring myself to go back. I walked all the way back here, assuming the thing would blow over and he’d be back to see me once again in at most, a year.” He shakes his head again. “Time ticked on, and nothing. Not a sound; a glimpse; a subtle mark left _somewhere_ I would see it. Nothing. I have no idea if he’s even still on Earth. I’m afraid I rather mucked things up with him.” He pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and blows his nose.

“You don’t need to tell me what the request was,” Wilde starts, having let a few seconds pass to make sure Aziraphale doesn’t have anything more to say. “Honestly, the less I know is probably better. Don’t want to entangle myself in an angel and demon’s business, no offense. But, I do think trying to destroy the painting was a bit extreme.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Now that you’ve explained yourself… Now that I know the reason you even hid the painting in the first place, I understand how you feel. You’ve probably never told him how you feel, have you?”

Aziraphale hesitates before shaking his head ever so slightly. “Not a soul. Until now, of course.”

“So you’ve been relying on him to come visit you, and taking him for granted every time he was here. Sure, it didn’t seem like you were doing that at the time, but I doubt anyone ever knows. If they feel like they might be putting all the effort into the relationship…” He trails off, looking down at the flower. 

“Are you saying I should – go and find him?”

Wilde nods. “It doesn’t have to be right away. It doesn’t have to be direct either. Maybe show up somewhere you think he would? But you have to put in the same he does for you, otherwise… otherwise it might fall apart. Forgive him, and give him a chance to forgive you before it’s too late.” With that, he stands, setting his teacup back on the saucer. “Forgive me, Aziraphale, but I think there’s someone I need to see.”

A small smile forms on his face. “Has my outburst suddenly made you realize something about yourself?”

“It has. I can’t wait for it to be too late, either.”

“Go ahead, Oscar. I think – I think I’m okay, for now. You certainly gave me a good deal to think about.”

He offers an encouraging smile. “Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

Aziraphale sends him off with a nod, after which he quickly dons his overcoat and mittens again. A carriage dutifully takes him to Ross’ house, where the butler ushers him inside and into the study.

When Wilde has removed his overcoat once more, he settles into one of the chairs, his leg bouncing up and down as he waits anxiously for Ross to arrive.

“Oscar,” he greets from the door behind Wilde after a few minutes, and Wilde springs up. “Isn’t this a surprise. Usually, you’re the one hiding from me.”

“I’ve made a mistake,” Wilde rushes out, circling the chairs so he can face Ross properly. “I’m sorry.”

“I thought you were going to figure out that painting?” When Wilde grimaces slightly at the word, Ross takes on a concerned look. “Oscar, what happened?”

“I did find out about the painting, but that’s not the point. The point is, I also found the pain and hurt behind the reason it was ever covered up, and – and –” he tries unsuccessfully to blink back tears.

“Oscar…” Ross steps closer, hovering around him. “Why don’t we sit?”

He fervently shakes his head. “No, no I need to get this out. I–” For an accomplished author, he finds himself at a sudden loss of words. “It was the painting, Robbie. It was always the painting. Even though I let myself believe it wasn’t for a while. I’ve made a mistake, and I hope it’s not too late to fix. Robbie, I…” he trails off, looking up into Ross’ eyes as he tries to regain his composure. “I was so wrapped up in everything, I didn’t even notice what you were doing for me. What you’ve always done for me. And – and what you mean to me. Can – Will you forgive me?”

A soft smile appears on Ross’ face as he steps closer, his voice low. “Of course, Oscar. Always.” He takes a hold of Wilde’s fidgeting hands and places their foreheads together, breathing deeply to help Wilde calm down.

Later that night, when Wilde has retired to his own office, he adjusts the nearby oil lamp so it isn’t too bright before picking up his quill, dipping it in the inkwell, and scratching his way down the new stack of parchment. 

_The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amid the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pink-flowering thorn._

Across the top of the page, he had scrawled a quick title after the words “first draft”: _The Picture of Dorian Gray_.

~~~

Many, _many_ years later, in the same, unchanged bookshop, Crowley finally gives in to his curiosity. The threat of Armageddon no longer hangs in the air, and the threat of Heaven and Hell is gone, too, so he is free to do what he wants. They both are. There is one shelf in the backroom that is always devoid of dust – the others had a healthy coating, which Aziraphale kept to a certain level with a miracle, but this one, he even caught Aziraphale dusting himself. For as much as he doesn’t want anyone to buy his books, it always seems odd. 

He picks up the worn-out book on top, noting that they all seem to be from the same author. The pages are worn enough that it’s obvious Aziraphale has read through it several times. Crowley doesn’t get far enough to read the book, though, getting caught on the signature.

_Thank you for what you have shown me. Now let me do this for you. Go after him, Aziraphale. I won’t be around to paint you forever, but he will._

_-Your Basil_

**Author's Note:**

> Wilde really had the best of both worlds here, huh. Getting to choose between two different Michael Sheens.  
> Anyway, I'm over here on [tumblr](https://pearlll09.tumblr.com/) if you want to say hi!


End file.
